


There Are Monsters At Home

by fotoshop_cutout



Series: There Are Monsters At Home [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Buried Alive, F/M, Immortality, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fotoshop_cutout/pseuds/fotoshop_cutout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is murdered, becomes immortal and stumps everyone with what he is. He also might happen to like Derek Hale a bit too much, get used to Peter kicking around and come to the conclusion that he needs to let Lydia go. Stiles has a few changes to his undead life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for round 2 of the Teen Wolf Big Bang at [teenwolf_bb](http://teenwolf-bb.livejournal.com/).
> 
> [like_cheap_wine](http://like-cheap-wine.livejournal.com/) contributed the beautiful art that can be viewed [here](http://yesnotoaster.tumblr.com/post/38321820434/click-to-enlarge-art-for-fotoshop-cutouts)

“You have a knack for creating a vivid picture, Mister Stilinski, let me paint one of my own: Scott McCall finds out that his pack members and his best friend are buried alive. Do you think he can find you and dig you all up fast enough to save you all? Do you think he'll be able to find you at all?” Gerard encroaches slowly, pushing himself into Stiles' space while he speaks, his eyes getting a little wild and spit flying in his building passion. Stiles leans back, swallowing thickly. He isn't too sure that Gerard can't smell his fear, but even if he is scared he still wants to act like he's brave. Like his Dad would.

“I think I might prefer more of a still life or landscape, you know?” Ha. Ha. That's bad, seeing as he'd just been threatened with getting buried alive. He's quiet for a moment and then speaks, trying to delay what he figures is inevitable. But he remembers what the Guidance Counselor said about trying to put off the reflex to breathe in when you're drowning. To give more time to maybe be rescued, maybe survive. He thinks that maybe Scott and his Dad already know he's missing and are tracking him down. He'd probably be happier to see his Dad at this point, but he'd take what he could get. Hell, he'd take Isaac or Derek at this point and not complain about it. “Like, what are you, ninety? Look, I can probably kick your ass up and down this room.”

The sharp backhand slap across his face felt like it was all knuckles. The force of it whips his head around and he's shocked that a man this old can hit as hard as he has. Gerard's hands are fisting his uniform, dragging him over toward the gaudy Gryffindor colored carpet in the corner of the basement. Stiles trips over his own feet and is trying to hang on to the older man's shirt to perhaps haul himself back upright. “Ok!”

The punch glances off his left cheekbone and his teeth jab into his lips, the side of his nose hurts inexplicably. His eyes are wide and he knows his mouth is hanging open, but he's totally in shock here—if you'd ever had a geriatric beat on you, you'd know—but he's trying to get it all to just _stop_. “Oh, whoa, wait!”

Gerard doesn't wait, though, he punches and punches. Stiles sees snapshots of Erica and Boyd cringing and whimpering. They all know that Stiles has the disadvantage of not having miraculous healing powers. Stiles feels blood trickle from his lower lip, dripping fat drops into his mouth and spreading red across his teeth. The old man is more sadistic than Stiles had thought. It could have just been one well-placed punch or a crack over the head with something heavy and that would have kept him out for a long time, but no, Gerard kidnapped him, enlightened him to the situation and was beating him to a bloody pulp before he buried him alive. Despite the pain, Stiles had enough time to wonder if werewolves buried alive had more time than a regular human. He couldn't imagine that they did.

He can't concentrate anymore, the pain alternating between sharp and dull, his head foggy. His eyelids flutter before he succumbs and the pain is a faint throb even though he's unconscious.

-

Gerard lets his lackeys deal with toting the three unconscious bodies across the town of Beacon Hills, the two wolves on opposite ends, tucked into places that people don't come across every day. He made sure Stilinski, the infuriating little bastard, had a very out-of-the-way hole in the ground. All special for him so hopefully Gerard wouldn't have to hear his voice ever again. That would be nice. While they dump the bodies into the boxes he'd made and stuck in the ground and then bury them, Gerard tucks Allison's hair behind her ear and sends her to bed with a good night in a sweet, caring tone. He tells her that he let the boy go, since he didn't have any information for them. She won't know the difference until after it's done.

After she's in bed and he exchanges some loaded looks with his son, he heads out. He finds Scott at the school—the monster was hanging around with Lahey and talking to the Sheriff, his best friend's father. He lingers in the background, glad to hear that his diversion worked and no one even knows where the Stilinski kid is. He waits and nods at people as they leave, about to sneak in when Scott rips the front of a locker off. Too much longer and that would be some innocent soul's head.

Derek Hale and Peter Hale show up and Gerard motions to his back up. They kick the door to the locker room open and Gerard steels himself against an attack. Nothing more than exposed claws and flashing eyes bar his way and they're a flimsy excuse for an attack. He raises his pistol up and has it pointed at Scott, the one he's here to talk to.

“I think you're going to want to hear this.” He draws a voice recorder out of his pocket and holds it up, watching as the monsters put away their faces and watched him press play. The conversation he'd had with Stiles filters out of the speaker, tinny sounding but real enough that Scott's mouth falls open and he acts surprised. Derek and Peter look confused and Lahey's looking at him like he's grown a second head. Once the sounds of punching starts Scott starts forward, looking like a little puppy trying to be aggressive. He clicks the safety on his pistol and speaks as he stops the recording, “Oh, that wasn't all.”

“What do you want from me? Where's Stiles?” Scott says, surprisingly level-headed. The corner of Gerard's mouth curls upward, an amused but dark smirk.

“Stiles isn't the only one I buried, you know.”

Derek and the Lahey kid seemed to pick up on what he was saying. He didn't let anyone else speak, though, he just steamrolled through. “I have a little game for you, Scott. We'll see if you can really save _all_ of your friends.”

Scott opened his mouth to say something, but Gerard kind of bared his teeth and when he spoke this time, his voice was full of anger, even if he didn't raise it at all. “Listen closely, Scott, or you'll never find them.

“A box within a box is where you'll find one;” That Lahey kid was going to like this next one, “The second's in a place where two childhoods died;” He loved the looks on their faces at his riddles, “The last you'll find with the fruits of your labor.”

He spun on his heel then, turning his back to the wolf pack who thought they could make Beacon Hills their home. He couldn't wait to find out who turned up dead. Not that they wouldn't all end up in the ground at some point in the near future.

-

Stiles groaned, raising a hand to press to the pain in his face and head. His hand smacks against a hard wooden surface. He remembers. He freezes, his hand hovering over his face and his breath is warm as it puffs against the wood planks that served as the top of the box he was in. Even though his eyes were open he couldn't see anything, it was so dark that there wasn't anything around him—like sensory deprivation, but a million times worse. Oh God, he was going to die.

He panted, the old feeling of the panic attacks he used to have was raising up the back of his throat, creeping from behind his eyes. He swallowed thickly, a stale taste mixed with the metallic sludge of dried blood made him want to gag. He felt a shiver race down his spine, but he had no room to move. He reached for the top of the box, coming into contact with it much sooner than he would have liked. He tried to measure the distance between the tip of his nose and the top, coming up with three fingers worth. He pressed back down in the box and tried to regulate his breathing.

His feet spread apart, cleats hitting the sides of the box quickly. He shuffled them back together, irritated that he couldn't even hold his feet straight up without his toes running into the top of the box. He reached out to his sides and found a bit more room up by his torso. Wonderful, a traditional coffin-shape from the movies. He couldn't move, he had no chance to dig himself out of here with supernatural strength, mostly because he didn't _have_ any. Yelling would be a waste of oxygen. He whimpered and bit at his lower lip, the opposite side of the split. He squeezed his eyes shut.

-

They're silent as Gerard and the other hunters leave, mostly just gaping after him. Scott half-turns to look at Derek, unknowingly deferring to his judgment. “What the hell?”

Derek grinds his teeth together, his jaw muscles cording in his frustration. It was usual to see that sort of look on him, but his eyes showed how scared he was. He ducked his head and resolutely looked elsewhere. He didn't even trust Scott with this; how were they supposed to work together? Scott shook his head to clear it as Isaac spoke.

“We have to find them.” He sounded a little bit desperate, but mostly he just seemed to be stating it. Like he thought that maybe they wouldn't. Scott nodded, his eyebrows knitting as he opened his mouth.

“There are three of them, that means that we should split up.”

Derek looked back up, seeming to have his emotions back in place and was wearing his angry face. Again. “We need to figure out where they are first.”

They fell quiet for a beat before Peter recounted what Gerard had said, sounding thoughtful. “The first one's 'in a box within a box', isn't that what he said? And the second one is in a place where two childhoods died... 'you'll find the third with the fruits of your labor'.”

Scott didn't know where to start—except! He snapped his gaze up from where he'd been gazing at the floor in thought, landing on Isaac. “You're house! That's the second one! Because Matt almost drowned there when he was kid and you're...”

He trailed off, seeming to realize that this could be the worst possible way to talk about the abuse the boy had suffered. He swallowed back his words. Isaac looked confused at first, but he nodded resolutely. He brought his phone out of his pocket and shook it. “I'll be in touch.”

Derek nodded and just like that, Isaac was off to where it all started for him. The three that were left were standing, lost in thought. Scott was finding it difficult to focus, especially in the face of something so important. He knew he had to figure out the riddles, but he was an action guy—he just wanted to go out there and find them. He realized that Gerard was probably banking on that, wanting to see if he could be intelligent as well as noble. The bastard probably knew that Stiles was the brains of the operation. Damn it. He had to _think_!

“'A box within a box'... doesn't that sound like a storage place?” Peter was talking again, looking between Scott and Derek. Derek nodded absently before he turned to Peter.

“Are there any other fruit orchards in Beacon Hills other than that one on the Preserve?”

Scott felt so useless. Peter looked up at the darkened ceiling, apparently trying to recall the information. “I don't believe so. You might be on to something there. I should go there.”

Derek and Scott both recoiled from that. “No.” Derek was the one to speak, “No, you're better at the riddles than I am, so you should stay with Scott and figure out that last one. You have a better chance than I do.”

Surprisingly logical. Not that Scott wanted to be stuck with Peter all over again. It wasn't like he could really pick and choose at the moment though, lives were depending on it. Scott had to admit, Peter was rather clever with these things. Derek nodded once and his hand dove into his pocket for his phone. “Text me if you need anything.”

It didn't take long for Peter to take charge and ask Scott a couple of questions about the warehouse district before they were taking off in that direction. It took more time than Scott was willing to admit for them to catch a scent trail that smelled a little like wolf and a lot like hunters. They followed it and Scott's heart was in his throat as he realized that Stiles wasn't going to be here. He had to help his packmates too, though. He couldn't be so singularly focused on this.

No one was in the warehouse when they found it, but there were scents all over the place that were so muddled that they couldn't distinguish the one they needed. Besides which, there wasn't much of the wolf scent to go by. Scott was the one that followed the wolfsbane and gunpowder scent to an airtight storage box. They're scent was all over it in a way that it wasn't on other boxes. Both he and Peter called out, hearing a muffled answer that was definitely Boyd. There was a loud thump from inside and Peter was looking around for some sort of crowbar.

Scott tried to pry the metal apart, tried to puncture it with his claws, but to no avail. Peter somehow found a metal tool and started to use it to pry it open. It took too long in Scott's opinion, but once they got a corner loose they were slightly relieved. Peter was using all his strength to pry the side off with his hands now and Boyd was leaning against the side, gasping for breath. Scott took out his phone and was once more worried about Erica and Stiles.

Stiles was just human; what was Gerard playing at?

-

He zones out for a while, contemplating the math that Lydia would know that would be the answer to how much air he has in this thing and how long he was out for. How much longer did he have to live? Eventually he loses it, hysterical and sobbing and pounding his fists at the top of the box. He skins his knee and chokes and dust—soil—sifts through the cracks in the top of the box and choke him more. He screams, yelling until his throat is all torn up, terrified and not wanting to die. He kicks and he thinks he feels a toe break, but he's not sure. His fists hurt and the rest of him feels numb, tears streaming down, hot trails that pool in his ears and make him itch.

After that, though, he gasps for breath and reminds himself that this isn't going to help. Without realizing it and without any real conviction behind it, he rakes his nails against the rough hewn wood that makes up the top of the box. He's pretty sure he had splinters in his fingers. He chooses not to notice the pinpricks of pain and tries to console himself with thoughts of: 'Scott will find me.' and 'He always manages to be just in time.' It doesn't work.

It's about the time when the thought of his Mom comes to mind that he realizes that he doesn't actually have any hope for getting out. He thinks about how his head feels like it's swimming a little more than before and he feels the fight just drop out of him. He's going to die here, in a box God knows where, and his Dad won't ever know if he's alive out there somewhere or dead. Scott probably doesn't know anything about where he is, no matter what Stiles had told Gerard earlier. He lays there, his hands dropping to lay over his chest and he listens to the silence around him.

His heartbeat is steady, calm now, and his breathing is coming out normally. He knows he should probably breathe in deeper, to try to get as much oxygen as he can, while he can, but he doesn't. He knows that this way will hurt less. He'll just... fall unconscious and never wake up. Right? That's what he read at one point. So he just laid back and let it happen. He was going to let himself die.

-

Peter sends him a text saying that Boyd's alright. He even attaches a picture of Boyd leaning against a cement wall, gasping for air—or maybe he was throwing up—and that only served to remind him that they weren't out of the woods yet. Erica and Stiles were still out there, buried and waiting for Isaac and Derek to find them. He prays that the next one they find is Stiles, even though he knows he can't really prioritize like that. He only wants it because at least Erica knew what she was getting into a bit more than Stiles did and he was so damn _human_ that it hurt. He was completely innocent.

He drags a hand through his hair as he continues to tromp through the Preserve, going in what he hopes is the right direction. It isn't like he can just follow the trails—that would be too easy. Besides, the hint that Gerard gave indicated that this grave was out by what used to be an orchard, long before the Preserve was actually the Preserve. Derek had only been there once before, but he thought he'd be able to find it quicker than this. Irritation set in and he just wanted to get there faster. He picked up the pace, running through the trees and the tall grass that grabbed at his legs.

Three minutes later, Isaac called. “Did you find him?”

“Him? I found Erica. She's alive and fine, but scared. What do I do?” He'd found Erica. Shit. _SHIT_. No, this was okay, it meant that his pack was okay. He shouldn't be feeling the way he was.

“Bring her here, to me. I'm still looking for St—” His feet slowed as he passed an apple tree. He looked around. The orchard! This was acres upon acres, though, how was he supposed to—? “I gotta go.”

He closed his phone with a sharp click and shoved it into his pocket while he looked around and sniffed. It was all wet-smelling, dew slicking up the grass and the leaves, and the light wasn't good. Not that his eyes noticed. They flickered red in the dark of the night, glancing this way and that to find loose soil.

He tries to use all of his senses, and he manages to smell dirt, like it was newly churned up, but only a whiff of it before it's gone. He walks in circles, trying to find it again even as he listens for anything. Everything's still but the crickets and cicadas chirping away. No yells for help under feet of ground, no heartbeats telling him where Stiles was. Nothing but his own, kicked-up heartbeat.

He couldn't let him die, he couldn't. No matter what. Derek had seen too many other people die who weren't connected to wolves or hunters at all and he couldn't bear for it to be someone he actually _knew_. Someone he—who was Gerard to have chosen something like this? How could he have decided that Stiles deserved this at all?

He found it! The scent was one he latched onto and lurched in the direction it took him. He passed trees, gathering speed as he went. What if he got there and it was too late? What if he got there and Stiles was already dead, alone and six feet under? He shook his head. He couldn't have thoughts like that, not when a life was on the line.

When he gets there he wondered how he could have missed it—the ground is loose and dark in a patch that's nestled right underneath an apple tree, one that looks dead and old, and there's broken up plant life mixed in. It's so messy and smells like the metal from the shovels used, like gasoline from a small pick up, like dirt and not a hint of Stiles. He starts panicking, sinking to his knees and getting dirt under his claws as they sink in. Why doesn't it smell like Stiles?

As he digs he smells stale sweat and the scent of a hunter, though he isn't sure which one. He's digging and he finds that he's yelling, making his voice hoarse as he tries to dig out as much as he can with his hands. If Kate were there, he thinks bitterly, she'd be laughing and pointing out that he looks like a dog trying to dig up his favorite bone. She'd also point out that he wasn't getting a response and that hey, there wasn't a heartbeat in there either. It was all so still and silent.

There's a frown plastered on his face and he knows that no matter what happens he's not going to stop digging. He's going to keep going—faster, if he can—and he's going to drag Stiles out. The kid's going to breathe, god damn it, even if Derek has to make him.

-

Stiles can practically feel the oxygen thinning out. He hopes that they've at least found Erica and Boyd, because while they may not be completely innocent in all of this, they never asked for all of this either. He wishes for good things for them. He hopes Scott doesn't blame himself for this, because he couldn't have prevented it any more than Stiles could have prevented Scott from being bit by Peter in the first place.

He hopes he sees his Mom again. Maybe he'll get the chance to look in on his Dad, if the afterlife exists, and make sure that he's still taking care of himself. Can a ghost affect the world? Could he haunt people into taking care of his Dad and making sure he didn't go on another bender? Could he make sure that his Dad ate right and didn't mourn for too long? He thinks maybe that his Dad is going to end up in the ground way sooner than he or his Mom would ever hope for. They were all each other had, after all.

He finds himself with a little extra time to think things through. He wonders what he would have done differently, if he had a chance. Would he have kissed Lydia? Probably not. Would he have tried to make first line for Lacrosse? Maybe. Would he have fought harder for his life? Definitely. It wasn't like he _wanted_ to die, he just accepted that he was _going_ to. How sad was that? That all the fight was drained out of him. At this point, though, his limbs felt heavy and he doubted he could try to get out even if he wanted to. He stared up into the darkness. The oppressing, stifling darkness that pressed in at his sides and his nose and was suffocating him. He imagined it was like those demons from Supernatural, forcing its way inside him and filling him to the brim until it wasn't him in there anymore.

Tears leak from his eyes as the thumping of his heart goes on. He's not breathing anymore.

-

He's hardly made a dent in the grave-site and footsteps, five pairs, are rushing toward him. He hears Scott choking out a sob, “Oh God, Stiles, no.”

He glances up, but doesn't stop digging, a growl the only thing leaving his lips as his canines flash. Erica's hiccuping and crying, on her knees by the edge of the overturned soil. Peter and Isaac are starting to help, Isaac's going to burn out fast at the rate he's going. Scott's clumsily clawing at the ground, but it's relatively ineffectual with all the shaking and crying he's doing. Peter's more voracious about it—level headed, but with only one thing on his mind, he won't be deterred. Derek's back to looking at the ground he's digging up, hoping that with the next handful his claws will find the top of the coffin. Boyd's leaning against the tree, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment before he speaks in a low tone. “It's too late. We're too late.”

“Don't say that! We'll get him out.” Surprisingly, it's Isaac who snaps at Boyd. Boyd sinks down to sit at the base of the tree, holding himself in a way that tells that he's going to be no help, but he's likely traumatized too much to do anything anyway. Peter joins Derek's hole with his and makes their efforts double until he scrapes against the top of the coffin. He stops, haltingly knocking against the top of the box.

Derek doesn't stop for anything, he just punches down, splintering the wood and tearing back up with his claws, opening up half the coffin in one go. They only have about a third of the coffin revealed, but it's enough he thinks. Peter's got hold of the other slats and yanks them up, tossing the chunks away as the moonlight falls on Stiles' pale face.

His brown eyes are open, staring up at the group without seeing them. Derek reaches down and cradles the boy's shoulders surprisingly gently as he pulls him up.

“Stiles! Stiles, come on. Breathe! Damn it, come on.” His voice sounds choked off, emotional in a way he tries not to ever show. Peter's trying to get him to stand up and Isaac is motionless, staring down with wide eyes at them. Scott's practically howling as he cries, rocking forward to reach out. He snags the sleeve of Stiles' Lacrosse uniform, but doesn't pull. Derek's got the rest of the human's body out of the coffin as he stands up, laying Stiles down on the edge of the grave.

Scott's there in an instant, shoving at Stiles' chest in a desperate way. Erica's got one of Stiles' hands in hers and she's crying something about Batman out to him. Boyd's not reacting at all and Derek can't spare the time to deal with it. Peter's shoving between Derek and Scott, moving the younger out of the way. He gestures to Derek.

“Keep his head up like that.” And then he's doing chest compressions. Derek doesn't know how to tell him that it won't do any good. That Stiles is so far gone that Derek's didn't hear his heart even before he started digging. Derek's heaving not just from exertion, but his tangled emotions, running his hand over the side of Stiles' face. He knows he's murmuring to him, trying to get him to wake up, to breathe, to just come back god damn it, but he can't stop. Isaac's got hold of Scott, who's partially shifted, holding him back.

In the end none of it matters, because Peter can't get him going again. He rocks back, sitting back like he's stunned and that isn't something Derek thinks he's ever seen in his Uncle. This wasn't part of Peter's plan and for once Derek is surprised that he's this _human_ after all that's happened. He pretends he doesn't see the splotches of his own tears falling onto Stiles' face. He wipes them away and sniffs them back, trying to clear his head. These kids are depending on him. This wasn't his fault.

Somehow he gets it together, pulling himself back enough that he can look up, can meet Peter's eyes, can glance at Isaac. He nods once, “Let him go.”

Scott lurches forward, wrapping himself around Stiles' middle and gripping hard at his sides, sobbing and burying his face in the Lacrosse uniform that Stiles is wearing. Derek's still there, hands framing Stiles' completely passive face. Derek refuses to let anything other than anger show now. He has to be strong. He has to be the Alpha. His voice is rough when he speaks again.

“Isaac, call the police—an ambulance—something. Please.” It's the first time his orders have any politeness to them. He thinks maybe that should tell him something, but he can't really bring himself to care right now. He looks over at Peter. “Thank you. Thank you for trying.”

Peter nods, but it's a jerky movement, not taking his eyes off of the dead body of the human boy who thought running with the wolves was a good idea.

The wait for others to get there is long and filled only with Isaac giving muffled directions to where they are and Scott and Erica's crying. Somewhere along the line, Derek closes Stiles' eyes, not wanting to look into them anymore. Not while they were dead and lifeless. He couldn't take that accusing look.

When they all do get there, it's the ambulance first. They have to practically tear Scott away, who is at least under control now, and Erica moves to sit with Boyd, joining their hands together. Peter had taken off the moment he heard anyone coming, saying that he couldn't be there. Derek didn't have to wonder why—he was supposed to be missing.

The Sheriff got there and all Derek could smell was the anxiety and misery pouring off of him. It was much more than Scott's, though he wasn't lacking for it either. All Derek could do was wonder who let him drive there and who was going to get him home. He crossed the grass, knowing that if he could help anyone right now, it would be the Sheriff. He knows a little something about losing everything. His arms wrap around the Sheriff's chest to hold him back, away from the dead body of his son. He tries not to notice the tears leaking from his eyes all over again as the Sheriff dissolves into a mess in his arms.


	2. What Happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [like_cheap_wine](http://like-cheap-wine.livejournal.com/) contributed the beautiful art for this piece that can be viewed [here](http://yesnotoaster.tumblr.com/post/38321820434/click-to-enlarge-art-for-fotoshop-cutouts)

His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. His joints were a little stiff. He tried to say something, anything, but only a dry cracking sound came from his mouth. It was so dark. Was he still in the coffin? That thought sent a shock of adrenaline into his system and he used all his energy to flail about. Not only did he find out that he was not in a coffin anymore, but he hit the icy cold floor with a fleshy smack. He was... he was naked. Why was he not wearing clothes?

The white sheet that had been draped over him before was now hooked over one shoulder and hiked up to his mid-thighs, scratchy and wool like a low thread count bed sheet. That's probably what it was. He blinked, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the lighting, which was relatively dim. Because it was a morgue and at night. Right. Stiles sat there, his bare ass against the freezing cold floor, a dry mouth and blinking furiously.

When he was finally able to think straight and further than 'I'm sitting in a morgue', he wrapped the sheet around himself, his joints still stiff, but easing up a bit. When he dragged himself upright, he looked around and resolutely didn't think about the bodies beneath sheets identical to what was on him. What he _did_ look at was the crumpled sheet next to the table across the room and the dripping goo from the table's edge. The Kanima!

He momentarily panicked before he realized that it would have attacked already if it was still around. He double checked anyway. The door was ajar. He bundled up the sheet in one hand and shuffled toward the door, cautious and jumpy. There were distant voices, but nothing close enough that he figured he should worry. His feet took him out into the hallway and he looked around at the signs. He had to get out of here. He needed his stuff. No. He was in Lacrosse gear—nevermind, he wanted clothes. He wanted a _drink_.

He found a janitor's closet and pulled out a jacket, frowned at it but thought it would do, closed the door and continued down the hall. It took some time, but he managed to find a staff room, dodged a middle-aged man who was playing with his pager on his way out, and stealthed in. It took some doing, but with the right stuff (a bobby pin he found on the counter) he started to pick one of the lockers open. It was either hit or miss—more the latter than the former in this case—and he found some scrubs that were very much too small. So small that he could only fit the pants on and they were highwater. He shrugged on the janitor's closet jacket and put the sheet in the trash with the bobby pin. He slipped out and back down toward the morgue, his bare feet silent against the floor.

It took him longer than he would have thought to get his nerve up to find his way out of the hospital and into the darkened streets, but at least he did. It was drizzling—more like misting—rain making everything shiny in the streetlamp lights. He took his time to figure out where he was going to go and what he was going to do exactly. What was his aim here? Scott. Scott would know what happened. How he got from the coffin in the ground to the morgue and then back alive again. There had to be an explanation. He was terrified.

He walked for what felt like forever, his chest slick from the rain. He was thinking about walking all the way to Scott's house, but his legs were getting tired and heavy and he still really needed a drink, so he headed to the nearest 24/7 convenience store. The majority of the time he spent just looking around the edges of the parking lot, scrounging up enough coins to use the payphone in the corner. When he finally slid into the booth he had to stop and think about Scott's number before he dialed.

Scott picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“'Cott?” The 's' was silent due to his throat being parched. He tried to wet his mouth but to no avail.

“...yes?” He could tell that Scott had no clue it was him. Why should he? He probably thought he was dead. Now that he considered it, Scott sounded awful.

“'Cott it's me. It's 'Tiles.” There was a beat of silence and Stiles breathed heavily into the mouthpiece, wondering if there was anything else he could say. He opened his mouth to tell him where he was, but there was a click and Scott hung up. He took the phone away from his ear and gaped at it. He actually hung up on him. After all the supernatural crap running around town? He jammed the phone back down on the hook.

He hated his life. Undead-life. Un-life? He ran a hand over his buzzed hair and sat down on the raised edge of the parking lot, looking around like he was lost.

One of the workers took pity on him and came out with a bottle of water and a taquito that was hard as a rock. The guy handed it to him and turned away without a word, paused and looked back. “I'm not supposed to help out homeless people, but there's a soup kitchen down on Hill Street. You'd be able to stay out of the rain while you got a hot meal.”

Stiles gazed after him. Did he look homeless? He looked down at his bare feet, ill-fitting pants and just a jacket on his torso. Yeah, yeah he kind of did. He just sighed and uncapped the water, drinking half of it in one long gulp. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. That felt much better. He drank half of what was left and then crunched on the taquito. It tasted dry and spicy. He finished it anyway.

He was just standing up when the headlights flooded the area, momentarily blinding him. He shielded his eyes with his arm, holding back a curse even as the car rolled to a stop in front of him. Scott was leaning out of the window, beckoning him forward. “Jesus! Stiles, get in.”

He stepped forward and he really should have known. Those headlights should have given it away. He watched as Scott tossed himself into the back seat and left the door open for him to get in. He sunk heavily into the passenger seat, glancing tiredly at the driver that he knew would be there but didn't really want to look at. Derek—who was ignoring him, as per usual. Like he hadn't just woken up in the morgue. He slumped further in the seat as Derek gunned it, taking off far faster than he should have.

Scott was on him in seconds, a hand on his shoulder and wide eyes looking him over. “It's you. It's actually—you're alive?”

Stiles didn't exactly have an answer, so he shrugged tiredly. Derek glanced over enough to bark at Scott. “Don't touch him. We don't know what he is.”

Stiles' head jerked up, eyes staring intensely at Derek as Scott backed off. “What I _am_? Are you serious?”

Scott had slid from the middle of the back seat over to behind Derek, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. Stiles twisted in his seat. “Scott? Really? Man... I'm not going to—to _eat_ you or anything.”

Scott wasn't meeting his eyes, wasn't speaking. Derek was driving and looking straight ahead as he took turns sharper than he needed to. Stiles glanced between them and ended up just facing front again and slouching, letting out a puff of a breath that might have passed as an aggravated sigh. The rest of the drive was tense and silent, only the sounds of the car filling Stiles' ears.

-

When Scott called, Derek had been dealing with the fact that the Alpha Pack had put their mark on his door—that was after Stiles and Jackson had both died and been taken to the morgue. Peter had followed him, bringing the three betas with them. Boyd had been more solitary than normal, Erica had been near inconsolable and while Isaac was holding onto Erica, he'd asked questions about the Alpha Pack. So the burnt-out husk of a home was filled with pack, once again, but it didn't feel like home. Then Scott calls, panicked because Stiles just called him and he'd hung up on him.

Against his better judgment, Derek left Peter to look after his three betas and went to pick up Scott in order to find out who or what was calling Scott. Scott was convinced it was really Stiles while Derek just didn't know. Sure, Peter had come back but what were the chances that Stiles had too? Especially considering the fact that Stiles was a human before his untimely death. The death that had Derek shaken to his core.

Don't get him wrong, Derek desperately wanted this Stiles to be the _real_ Stiles, because he wasn't sure he could handle something that looked like Stiles, but wasn't actually. Just like he wanted Peter to be the lovable uncle he remembered from before Kate. Just like he couldn't handle it if Laura came back and wasn't the same sister he remembered. Stiles had become something to him, through the constant fear that gripped both of their lives, and Derek couldn't find a way to remain impassive about his death and now his apparent reanimation.

He kept driving through the night, faster than he should have, but his excuse was getting Stiles—this _thing_ —to a place where he could truly examine him. See if this was really him.

Scott had actually listened to him about not touching this thing that looked like Stiles, which should have surprised him but didn't. One look in Scott's eyes and you could tell that he'd lost something out there, digging up his dead best friend. Derek didn't want to think about it, but when he did he knew that it was the same thing he lost when he had to bury half of Laura.

-

Stiles was exhausted and he could practically feel his jaw cracking as he yawned when they pulled up to the—of course it was the Hale house. Fuck his life. He shuffled his bare feet against the floor of the Camaro, feeling the grit tracked in by shoes over his skin. This place made him extremely uncomfortable. Maybe it had to do with all the death that had gone on here. The death he'd had to... he'd _killed_ someone here, so of course he didn't want to be here. He glanced back at Scott, but took the cue when Derek opened the driver's side door and climbed out to get out himself.

Scott snickered, half-way out the door and had to hold himself up using the car. “Oh God, Stiles, what are you even _wearing_?”

Stiles gaped for a moment, “Really, Scott? Really?”

Unfortunately his mouth didn't stop there, with the good humor, instead his tiredness caught up with him and he just let it start coming out. “I was laying in the _morgue_ with a fucking horrible bed sheet draped over me. I could have been Kanima food in my first moments of whatever the hell I am now and I had to sneak around and pick locks in order to get what I have on. So excuse the fuck out of me if I'm not dressed to your standards.”

He blinked at Scott, his best friend he'd just chewed out over virtually nothing. The best friend who had thought he was dead. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Scott was already retaliating. “What the hell, Stiles? I wasn't even—”

Derek had hold of the back of Stiles' jacket, though, and was dragging him back. His voice was loud over Stiles' shoulder. “Scott, stop it. Now's not the time.”

Scott's hardened gaze held Stiles' for a moment and cords of muscle in his jaw worked as he ground his teeth. Derek turned and started walking Stiles away, toward the house. The door swung open and faster than Stiles could comprehend, he had an Erica in his arms. He felt the hot tears splash against his collarbone and arms wrap around him just before Derek was basically ripping them apart, throwing Erica backward into Isaac who was standing there with wide eyes.

“Why isn't his heart beating?”

Well that was just swell, when were they going to tell him?

-

Derek ground out a set of orders to Peter—who the hell was going to tell him that he wasn't actually dead?—and dragged Stiles toward the dark back yard. He was sure there was a joke in there somewhere, something rapey, but he was too worn out to make it let alone that it would be in bad taste. When Derek let him go it was at arms length and two hands on his shoulders pushed him to sit on a tree stump. He went willingly only because he knew there was no way he was getting away with not listening to the alpha werewolf right now. He shivered at the cold dampness and closed the jacket as much as he could.

“So when were you going to tell me?”

Derek, to his credit, only cringed a little bit at Stiles' tired tone. He didn't answer though. Stiles sat still for a moment. “You weren't going to, were you?”

Scott was lingering back by the house, as if he weren't able to hear the whole conversation anyway. Stiles glanced at him and then looked back at Derek. “What's wrong with me? If I died, why didn't I stay dead?”

His mouth ran away with him again, “Am I a zombie now? Am I going to start to eat people? 'Cause I was just joking in the car I didn't think—”

He choked off the end of the sentence and Derek finally met his eyes again. “I don't know what you are. I don't even know if it's really you in there.”

Well, there was always that. Even if Stiles thought that was kind of absurd. Scott strode forward. “Wait, we did this thing back in eighth grade—that time when we got drunk on your Dad's whiskey for the first time,”

Derek was looking at them like they were crazy. Maybe they were a little, but Stiles lit up when he remembered. “And we said that we'd know it was really us if anything happened!”

Derek took a step back. Apparently he couldn't handle their awesomeness. Scott grinned back at him. “Say it!”

Stiles opened his mouth, but glanced over at Derek, who was looking between them. Not with him there. Absolutely no way. He shut his mouth again. Scott frowned, “Come on, Stiles. Say it.”

Stiles looked at Scott, looked at Derek. “Not when he can hear me.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Come on, it's not like he'd say anything about it. Just come on, say it.”

Derek remained still, flicking his eyes between the two best friends, but when Stiles didn't say it, he spoke in a low tone to Scott. “You're sure that this will tell whether it's him or not.”

Scott nodded, not looking away from Stiles. Stiles shook his head. Derek looked over at him, speaking up this time. “If you don't say it, I'll gut you.”

While the development of a relationship between Scott and Derek kind of astonished him (they were working together?), he gave Scott a pleading look, hoping that his best friend would save him some pain and humiliation. “Come on, not in front of him.”

Maybe whining would do the trick. Derek stepped forward, his fingers curled into claws and held out in front of him. Stiles leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, okay, I'd do Jacob Black! Jesus Christ put those things away!”

Scott grinned and Derek looked confused. “You'd do who?”

-

After all that was sorted and Stiles refused to say it again so Boyd could mock him, they brought Stiles inside and Isaac donated a rumpled shirt, Peter donated some pants that surprisingly enough fit decently well and Erica tossed an extra pair of socks at him. She spent the rest of the time surreptitiously cuddling up to his side on the couch. Scott wasn't taking his eyes off him and Peter was acting like they were family or something. Maybe it was the whole coming back to life thing—they had to stick together or some shit like that. Even though Stiles was one of the ones to help kill him to begin with.

In any case, they sorted out that they would all rest before they tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Mostly because Stiles insisted that he get some sleep.

Upon waking up he found that Peter was out on the porch, examining a mark that hadn't been on the door when Stiles had been here last. Stiles shoved his hands into the pockets of the borrowed jeans and frowned, not wanting to talk to him, really. Peter didn't seem to realize, or if he did he just didn't care.

“Strange, isn't it?”

“What? That mark? Yeah, it's weird. Who made it?” Stiles knew he wasn't talking about the mark on the door, but he'd rather keep the conversation at least somewhat comfortable and not creepy. Peter smiled in the way that he did and Stiles shifted his weight onto his other foot.

“The Alpha Pack, but that's not what I was referring to.” Peter was humoring him. Good. He could just keep doing that and things would be swell.

“The Alpha Pack? What's that, exactly? Because as far as I know, you can't have more than one Alpha kicking around.”

This time Peter's eyebrows drew together and he gave a puff of a sigh. “You don't have all the information in your research.”

He reached out, tracing the mark with his eyes and fingertips. “There are usually two Alphas in a single pack, they're always a couple. However, this pack is made up of Alphas—I think they're more of a coalition than a real pack. Whatever they are, they will want to add Derek to them.”

He glanced over at Stiles, “I would have made you an Alpha, you know. You would be a perfectly good leader.”

Stiles swallowed back thickly and pretended he hadn't heard the last bit. He didn't want to think about any of that. Least of all the fact that Peter was being creepy again. “Should Derek join them?”

Peter frowned again and shook his head. “I think not.”

Isaac slowly opened the door and edged around Peter, eyes on Stiles. He stood next to Stiles, hands in his own pockets. “I was going to get breakfast, did you want anything—do you eat food?”

Stiles eyes widened comically at Isaac's tagged on question. Peter had a sort of smirk on his face and spoke in a low tone. “I'll take a coffee, please, Isaac.”

Isaac nodded and Stiles shook himself out of it, giving a half shrug, “I'll take a coffee and some sort of breakfast sandwich. And yes, I eat food.”

Isaac nodded, looking a bit sheepish, and slumped off, back into the house. Peter was quietly watching Stiles for a moment. When he finally spoke, he strode closer, making Stiles feel cornered even though he had nothing preventing an escape, should he need it. “So how do you feel?”

Stiles swallowed thickly, trying to pretend his nerves weren't shot by being this close to the evil werewolf he'd helped to kill. “Um, I'm not sure what you mean. I'm fine. I'm me.”

Peter cocked his head to the side and studied him before stepping away just as the door swung open and Isaac slipped between them to head to the Camaro.

-

When everyone was awake and Scott had returned (he was the only one to go home last night), Stiles just milled around, trying not to poke his nose where it didn't belong. Isaac came in with breakfast that smelled hot and delicious and Isaac gave up his own sandwich for Scott, who took pity on him and shared it back. Stiles devoured his, slurped his coffee and watched the pack interacting. They were all tossing uncertain glances his way, but they were pretty much acting the same as he would have imagined. Boyd and Erica shared a drink, but had their own food, their hand holding showing how much they were together now. Isaac and Scott were sharing food, which was odd because Stiles remembered getting smacked every time his hand ventured anywhere near Scott's food. Peter stood, watching everything silently and leaning back against a scorched wall while drinking his coffee. Derek didn't eat in the same room. He took his food, offered thanks to Isaac for getting it, which made the young man smile in delight, and retreated back to where ever it was he had come from.

Eventually, Stiles ducked out, still sipping at the hot beverage in his hands. He was mostly trying to get away from the sideways glances in his direction and the oppressive stare that Peter was pinning him under. Scott looked worried, but Stiles had just offered him a reassuring smile before he left. He wandered toward Derek, not sure why he was headed toward one of the only things in the house that actually scared him. Curiosity got the better of him, he guessed. He found Derek in an upstairs room, looking at a sooty book.

Stiles stood there for a little while, watching and not certain he wanted to interrupt. He was about to... well, he was either going to leave or say something, he hadn't committed to one or the other yet, when Derek spoke without looking up from the book. “What do you need, Stiles?”

What _did_ he need? He wanted his Jeep. He wanted his own clothes. He wanted to hug his Dad and let him know that he was alive and well. He wanted to find the Kanima and kill it. He wanted to make sure Lydia was okay. He wanted to go home, he wanted to know if Gerard was still alive or if someone had killed that bastard for him. He wanted some goddamn answers. He shifted his weight. “I don't...”

Derek looked up from the book, laying it down on the floor in such a way that a librarian would cry about the spine getting broken. Stiles didn't say anything. Derek sighed and stood from his huddled position on the floor. Stiles would have said that he looked more like a cat than a wolf, but he didn't want to chance getting his hand bitten off. Derek then made his way over and held Stiles' gaze. He wasn't sure if he should look away or hold it—which one was challenging him?

Derek then practically swooned forward and breathed deeply, like he was smelling Stiles. That wasn't exactly a preposterous idea. He rocked back into his normal posture again and had a pinched sort of look. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I'm fine. It's all working—except my heart, apparently.” He tapped his chest, giving Derek an odd look. “Think I'm going to suddenly have cravings for brains?”

Derek shook his head, looking torn between exasperation and amusement. “No, I just can't tell if you're going to stay alive or if you're going to drop dead at any minute.”

Call him crazy, but it sounded to Stiles as if Derek didn't look forward to him dropping dead. Again. He reached out and gave a very gentle punch to Derek's monster bicep. “Awwww, would the sourest alpha of them all miss little old me?”

Teasing, of course, because what the hell, he had a deathwish apparently. Derek looked down at his arm, and then snaked out his own, grabbing Stiles' retreating arm in a rough grasp. Stiles looked alarmed. Derek softened his hold after a second, but yanked Stiles closer, not helping Stiles feel any less alarmed. Derek touched his forehead. With his lips. Derek Hale just kissed his forehead. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Don't do that to your friends. They miss you.”

Right, he totally didn't miss Stiles. Not at all.

-

Once breakfast was over and people were restlessly milling about the house, Derek rejoined them. When he did, everyone's attention went directly to him, even if Stiles was paying attention only to make sure he didn't do anything else strange and out of character. Erica, Boyd and Isaac all bunched up on the couch with Scott standing awkwardly beside it. Peter was still leaning against a wall and Stiles? He was trying to just stay out of everyone's way, so he kind of ended up in the center of the room.

“So when can I go home?”

Boyd looked up sharply and spoke, his tone with a slight edge that Stiles didn't think belonged there. “When is your heart going to start beating again?”

Derek interrupted before anyone else could say anything, “Boyd has a point. You can't go home. Your Dad believes that you're dead. They probably have already found out that your body is missing and that's going to be hard enough to deal with. We don't need you showing up suddenly and shocking your Dad into a heart attack.”

How did Derek know about that? Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but realized that he understood what they were saying and so didn't have any arguments. He clamped his mouth shut and then opened it again when he thought of another question. “What about my clothes and everything?”

“You'll have to do without.” Peter spoke, pushing himself off of the wall. “I can take you shopping for new clothes.”

Stiles wasn't sure he felt comfortable with that. Scott looked pretty skeeved out too and said as much, “Is that a good idea? Derek?”

Funny how suddenly he was always deferring to Derek. When did this happen, exactly? Derek shrugged and looked toward Scott. “Go with them if it makes you more comfortable.”

Well, two against one was better odds than just Stiles against Peter. Stiles glanced over at Scott. Not that those odds made Scott feel any better. Boyd spoke again, “What are we going to do about his heart?”

Stiles wasn't aware that there was anything that could be done. He was about to say as much when Scott spoke again. “What about Dr. Deaton? He'd be able to tell us, wouldn't he?”

Derek seemed to take exception to that and frowned, “What about your Mom? She's a nurse and she knows about us. She might be able to help, seeing as he was human first.”

That—actually made sense. Damnit, why was he agreeing with Derek? Of course, Scott didn't though.

-

Once it was all agreed upon and Scott bundled up Stiles and put him in the car, telling him to look as inconspicuous as possible, they headed toward Scott's house.

“Will your Mom even be home?” Stiles looked over, through the sunglasses that Isaac had jokingly handed to him. Stiles thought he looked even more conspicuous while wearing sunglasses, a pink winter hat that Erica lent him and Derek's leather jacket. He wasn't about to mention it to Scott though, seeing as he would probably have an anxiety attack.

“She doesn't go to work until this evening.” Oh good. Excellent.

“How are we going to break it to her? You know, that I'm actually alive-ish?” Stiles was looking levelly at Scott as Scott didn't answer, just drove on. Great. Wonderful. How come no one could come up with a decent plan but him?

So when they got there it was, naturally, a colossal mess. Ms. McCall screamed and flailed about when Stiles came through the door after Scott and Scott had to try to settle her down. She gave up the flailing pretty quickly, but was still on edge and not exactly happy that Scott hadn't warned her prior to making an appearance. Stiles apologized as much as he could, but she just patted his shoulder.

“Oh, I don't blame you, Stiles.” After that she got right down to business, pulling out all sorts of supplies and asking questions. She confirmed that his heart wasn't beating, but asked him to get in all sorts of positions to test everything else. Apparently he reacted fine, it was just that his heart wasn't... working. She then pressed her fist to his chest. He opened his mouth, about to ask what she was doing when she pulled back and _punched_. He doubled over as Scott cursed and Ms. McCall apologized. He gasped for breath, tears in his eyes before he straightened. He felt like his chest was throbbing a lot more than it should have been. He rubbed at it.

“What the hell?” He coughed out, still trying to blink away the tears. Scott was lingering next to him.

“I'm sorry, I just wanted to see—did it work?”

“Did what work?!” She just hauled off and punched him in the chest, what the hell was that supposed to do? She approached, slowly, with her stethoscope in hand and pressed it to his chest again. She smiled.

“See? It's beating again.” She took off the earpieces and offered them first to Scott, and then to Stiles. His heart was beating. His _heart_ was freakin' _beating_ again. The throbbing in his chest wasn't pain, it was his _heart_. Oh god, he had missed that.


	3. Everything Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [like_cheap_wine](http://like-cheap-wine.livejournal.com/) contributed the beautiful art that accompanies this piece. It can be viewed [here](http://yesnotoaster.tumblr.com/post/38321820434/click-to-enlarge-art-for-fotoshop-cutouts)

“I can't tell you what he is.” Melissa warned Scott as Stiles sat at their kitchen table, hand over his heart as he felt it beat under his ribs. He was distracted by the feeling, the sound—to have it beating again—so he wasn't really paying too much attention to what was being said only a few feet away from him.

Scott frowned in that adorable puppy way he does and gave a helpless shrug, glancing over at his best friend. “We'll take it a step at a time,” He looked back at his Mom, “Just don't tell the Sheriff, whatever you do.”

Melissa pursed her lips. “It's not my place to, but I don't think it's right, keeping him in the dark. Especially about his son.”

Scott nodded, but Melissa reached forward anyway, holding his shoulders. “I would want to know if you were still alive if I thought you were dead. He has no one left but Stiles. You should tell him.”

“We'll consider it, Mom.” This seemed to appease her; she nodded and released him.

“You boys hungry then?” She stopped and turned back to face Stiles, “You do eat food, don't you?”

He gave an exasperated sigh, “Why is everyone always asking me that?”

She smiled and went on to make them sandwiches.

-

When they climbed in the car, Stiles was still checking to make sure his heart was beating by keeping his fingers against the pulse point on his wrist, rubbing his hand on his neck or resting the flat of his palm against his chest. He still wasn't all that aware of things outside of his beating heart, so he didn't notice that they weren't returning to the Hale house until they were half-way in the other direction.

“Where are we going?” He looked over at Scott who had his lips pursed in that way that told he was stubbornly going to ignore Stiles. Stiles hated seeing that expression. He dropped his hand from his chest. “Scott, where are we going?”

Scott checked his mirrors and passed a car that was going just under the speed limit. When he was back in the correct lane, he answered in a hard tone that meant there was no arguing. This was unusual for Scott. “We're going to see Dr. Deaton.”

“Is that a good idea?” When Scott glanced over like Stiles was crazy, he quickly expanded on what he meant. “I mean, will he be able to answer any better than your mom? I'm just wondering.”

Scott was back to pressing his lips into a thin line and exhaling through his nose. “We won't know until we ask.”

Stiles didn't know why he cared, but... “Derek won't like it.”

“Derek can kiss my ass.”

Well there was always that. Stiles had been so set on believing that Scott was a part of the pack now that he might have forgotten how stubborn Scott was when he put his mind to it. Not that Stiles particularly wanted to be a part of the pack either, but he at least had the option as an... ex-human? Non-werewolf?

They pulled into the parking lot to find only one extra car parked there. It just had to be Stiles' Dad. Of course, because the world liked to fuck with Stiles. Scott was about to get out when Stiles just sunk down to practically the floor of the car.

“What are you doing man, get out.”

Stiles gave Scott a hard look and gestured toward his Dad's parked patrol car without answering verbally. Scott spun on his heel to look at what he was pointing at. He frowned and looked around. “He's inside, so sneak around to the back. Where you took Derek when he was shot. I'll meet you there when it's clear.”

Stiles, being a bit churlish because dammit, this wasn't cool, took the pink hat off and threw it on the seat as he ducked out of the car and practically sprinted to the side of the building. Scott glanced at him twice before going inside. Stiles snuck around, grabbed the spare key and let himself in, closing the door behind him and staying hidden between some empty racks and the bags of dog food that were stacked back there. Just in case, you know.

This meant that he heard vague voices: his Dad he knew, Scott he could figure out and the other was Dr. Deaton. Stiles wished he had a cell phone so he could at least not be bored right now. He started going through the leather jacket's pockets, not finding much. Old receipts, a few coins... he'd thought that maybe he'd find something interesting, but no luck. It felt like forever, but in reality it was probably only a few minutes before Scott opened the door and ushered him inside. Stiles paused and looked around, making sure his Dad hadn't hung back for some strange reason. Stiles wasn't an idiot, he knew why his Dad couldn't just up and see him when he thought Stiles was dead.

Dr. Deaton was in the examination room. The very same one that Stiles had been given the Mountain Ash in and told to be the spark. He chose to push those pre-death memories away for the time being and focus, instead, on what they were actually there for. “Hey Doc.”

No, that totally wasn't him sounding nervous. And the good doctor? Oh no, he didn't look hesitant at all. Note the sarcasm.

“Stiles.” Dr. Deaton's voice might have wavered a moment, showing that the doctor was no more prepared for seeing him alive than anyone else had been. Stiles pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything about that.

-

“I can't be sure, but you seem alive now. I don't know how it happened just yet. Where were you buried when you died?”

Stiles couldn't answer that, so he looked to Scott. Scott scratched his head and winced against the memory. “The old abandoned apple orchard on the Preserve.”

The vet nodded and offered his hand to shake with Stiles'. Stiles took it because he wasn't sure what else to do. “It's great to see you alive, but don't do anything rash, not until we figure out what made you this way.”

All Stiles could do was nod—until he caught sight of Scott nodding in unison and he reached out to smack his best friend on the chest. “We should go.”

Scott just kept nodding and Stiles sighed, turning back to the vet. “Well, thanks for trying anyway.”

The good doctor turned away and Scott led him out the back again. They snuck up to the car and were on their way back before Derek got too fed up with them.

-

Turns out that Derek was angry—more with Scott than Stiles—but it still made Stiles shrink back and slouch into the back of the couch like it would swallow him up. Derek paced the room and Peter peered around the door frame, not quite wanting to get in the way of Derek's anger, but not trusting to leave him alone either. Scott was sitting rigid beside Stiles, watching Derek pace with a hard edge of anticipation. He knew that his best friend was just waiting for Derek to snap and throw him around the room. Honestly, Stiles was waiting for the same thing. He _so_ didn't want to be in the way of that.

Derek turned to face them suddenly and Scott's gaze dropped to the floor instantly. Stiles didn't take wolf cues well and so met Derek's gaze evenly. Derek's mouth tightened somewhat before he stalked up closer to them. “Just—what were you thinking?”

Scott peeked up toward Derek before diverting his eyes again, “We can trust him. He's helped me— _us_ —before. I thought he might have some useful information.”

Derek made a sort of huffing sound, “That's not the point!”

Stiles knew where this was going. Scott would raise his voice now and they'd get into a yelling match only saved if he or Peter spoke up. He glanced toward the reanimated werewolf only to find he'd disappeared again. Stiles stood abruptly, interrupting what Scott surely thought was the right way to deal with this situation. “Derek, he thought he was making the right call, utilizing everything we have access to in order to figure out what the hell went wrong with me. I don't know if you forgot, but I'm supposed to be _dead_ right now and I'd like to know how I'm _not_.”

He took a deep breath afterward, pulling in all the air that left his lungs during that speech. Derek gazed at him flatly before he nodded, glanced at Scott and verily growled out, “Don't let it happen again.”

When they emerged and Isaac, Erica and Boyd looked up at them (Peter was busy reading some sort of leather-bound book and didn't bother). Scott sunk into a chair by Isaac, resting his head in his hands. Erica smirked up at Stiles, “Surprised he didn't rip your head off for that.”

Stiles scoffed as an initial reaction, but afterward he tipped his head to the side and realized she was probably right. That was dangerous—no matter if he was undead or just human. He leaned against the wall near Erica and just hung out while they did homework.

-

So life went on for a while until Stiles started to get irritated by every little thing. He was cooped up in this half-burnt down house or the underground abandoned train station depending on the day, reading books that Scott or one of the others brought him. He fell by the wayside with school since he couldn't exactly go back. So instead of going out training and such, he had empty days filled with trying to ignore the looks that Peter gave him and the reactions the betas began trying to get out of him.

He started missing his Dad most of all, his computer second. Finally he got Scott to bring him his laptop, giving him some entertainment until the battery died. Then he started visiting Scott's house and stealing meals from Melissa and generally becoming a nuisance.

It had only been five days.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, a car pulled into the drive that got the entire pack on edge. Derek was the first to stand down, which made Stiles wonder who the hell it could be. He twitched an upstairs curtain remnant to the side to see out. It was Dr. Deaton. Stiles got out of the rickety wooden chair he'd dragged from the porch up to the second floor (there was better light to read by up there) and wandered down. He didn't know why he pulled the door shut behind him, it seemed like a purposeless gesture with half the house exposed to the elements and the werewolves inside able to hear everything they said, but he did anyway. He hopped down the steps and the vet gave a fairly disapproving look to him.

Once again Stiles had stolen Derek's leather jacket (actually, this one might have been Boyd's, they both had piled them on the edge of the couch and Stiles had just taken the one that smelled nicer) but was otherwise wearing his own clothes. He pulled the sleeves of the jacket down his wrists and crossed his arms defensively. It wasn't like he had a lot of choices these days.

“You're immortal.”

That made Stiles drop his posturing and gape. “I'm what now?”

“You're immortal, Stiles.” He spoke with such a deadpanned tone that Stiles started to laugh, thinking that Scott had put the vet up to this, but dropped that quickly too when Dr. Deaton gave him a long-suffering look.

“Wait. You're serious?” He scoffed, choked a bit on the sound and swallowed half of it back down. “How could I be—?”

“A number of factors. For one, apples are seen as fruits of immortality. Secondly you were buried in a cypress box, long held as a passage to immortality. Quite a few cultures buried their dead in cypress boxes in hopes of their loved ones becoming immortal.” This wasn't it, Stiles could tell. Dr. Deaton kept going, “Lastly, you were buried in a patch of sage, which is usually said to instill eternal life in the consumer, but in this case I don't think it mattered.”

“So how immortal are we talking?” Stiles doesn't recognize his own voice as it lurches out of him. This? This was never something he wanted.

“I don't know.” Dr. Deaton faltered as he dropped his gaze. When his eyes came back up to meet Stiles' he seemed more sure of himself. “We won't know until something happens.”

Stiles nodded mutely. He wasn't sure he wanted his brain to continue to work just yet. Dr. Deaton lingered there before he turned away without another word and climbed back in his car, taking off. Stiles expelled a breath and went to turn around, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut. He jumped back quickly with a curse word on his lips after nearly running into Derek, who was standing there with his hands in his pockets like it was perfectly normal to sneak up on someone. Peter was out on the porch, watching from a distance and that made Stiles wary.

“Your Dad can't know.” The proclamation made Stiles grind his teeth. He knew that, obviously. He went to push past Derek, showing how irritated he was, but Derek's hand snaked out and gripped his bicep, pulling him up short.

“I know it's hard, but you don't want to hurt him more than necessary.” At that, Stiles had enough. He hissed back, keeping his voice low so Peter would have to work to overhear their conversation.

“You think I don't know that? You think I'd want him to find out that yeah, his son was alive after all but oh wait, he's never _going_ to die? We don't even know how this works, or if Dr. Deaton has it right. So no duh, I'm not going to go over there and give him a heart attack.”

Derek at least looked reproachful after that. He didn't look like he was about to say anything in response, but he wasn't letting go either. For a moment Stiles held his breath, waiting for some kind of reply as he held the alpha's gaze. Finally, Derek nodded and dropped his eyes, his grasp loosening so Stiles could pull his arm free. The younger thought about going up the porch and returning to reading, but one glance at Peter Hale up ahead and Stiles was a bit reluctant, so he ducked his head and asked a question that sprung up in his mind.

“Are you going to join the Alpha Pack when they come for you?” Stiles should have kept his mouth shut.

Derek looked taken aback, glanced at Peter and the door with the Alpha Pack's mark on it and then returned to looking at Stiles. “No. You know I would never...”

The thing was, Stiles _didn't_ know. How could he? He hardly knew Derek Hale. Derek seemed to realize this and shook his head, looking toward the untamed forest that surrounded the house before glancing back at Stiles, his voice still quiet. “I wouldn't abandon them. I wouldn't leave—” His words were stuttered and stilted together, “—you.”

At first Stiles was willing to shrug it off, and he sort of did with a half shrug that meant he was uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. Then he laughed and mussed up his buzz cut. “You're just saying that.”

Derek reached halfway between them, but dropped his hand back to his side just as quickly, his jaw tensing for a moment. “I won't join them, Stiles.”

Stiles sobered and nodded, slouching off toward the house and leaving Derek, alpha werewolf extraordinaire, to trail after him.

-

No one brought up the whole 'immortal' thing after that, not for a long while. There was major talks (read: arguments) over Jackson, over the _Kanima_ being out and about, about killing Gerard, about the Alpha Pack supposedly closing in on them.

Needless to say, this wasn't the first argument between Derek and Peter that Stiles had been privy to. Luckily these things generally happened when he could escape, going out with Boyd and Isaac or letting Scott drag him somewhere out of town. This time, though, was in the middle of the day and Derek had a thing about getting physical whenever he was angry. So he threw stuff. Like discarded wrenches and pieces of chains and stuff. Most of them Peter effortlessly dodged, but every once in a while he'd get hit. It was partly entertaining and partly horrifyingly scary.

“I already told you what the solution is.” Peter was speaking calmly, like he always did, but this got Stiles' attention. What solution? How come he hadn't heard about it?

“I won't put another human into harm's way.” Derek's tone was loaded with vehemence, his eyes startlingly shocking red before dimming back to their original color. Stiles didn't say anything, even if he was no longer reading the book he was pretending to be so lost in. His eyes skimmed the pages, but he didn't really soak up what was happening. He flipped the page and Peter glanced at him before dragging his eyes back to Derek.

“Why, because it didn't turn out so well the last time? At least he's not permanently dead.” Okay, that was so not cool.

“No, it's worse because he _can't_ die. He's going to outlive everyone he knows and cares for.” Valid point, Derek.

“So what's the worse that could happen? He'll have a companion, and she'll be both smart and beautiful. Too bad.” Peter didn't sound sorry. Wait—smart and beautiful? He jerked his eyes over to Peter, his book dropped to the seat of the chair he hadn't realized he'd vacated.

“You're not putting Lydia in the middle of this. No way.” At the very least Derek seemed to appreciate Stiles' input.

“Do you want to save Jackson or not?” Peter seemed to feel like he was talking to children or something. Maybe puppies, since he was a werewolf and all. Did werewolves call their young puppies?

“I don't give a shit about Jackson—he dug his own grave,” Pun unintended, “Let him lay in it already.”

Derek didn't seem to appreciate that. He shook his head and paused before he made his stance known. “I won't put another defenseless human in harm's way. It's bad enough what happened to Jackson and now Stiles. Even Erica and Boyd are screwed up because of what Gerard did to them.”

Doesn't Stiles know that. More than once he'd seen Boyd have a freak out and have to go outside for a run in the woods. He didn't like closed spaces anymore. Stiles could appreciate that, he preferred large open spaces too. Just the reminder alone made his breath hitch and his vision get sort of dark and shorted out, his hand grasping for something close to him. His fingers dug into Derek's arm.

Peter was talking soothingly in his ear, although Stiles wasn't sure what he was saying. Derek reminded him to breathe and Peter was busy telling Derek that he was an idiot when he came out of it. He hated panic attacks.

“You can't just talk about that shit, Derek.” When did Erica get here?

Derek huffed but didn't break his gaze from Stiles'. “Stiles?”

He nodded stiffly and Erica gave a sort of mocking laugh in the background. She produced a glass of water as Scott sunk down on the arm of the chair he'd been deposited in. Peter spoke again, back on the same topic as earlier. “So about Lyd—”

Derek looked sharply at him, “We'll talk about it later.”

It took Stiles half an hour to get back to relative normality. Whatever 'normal' was these days.

-

There were no new things with the Kanima in the days that followed. The pack had instituted a buddy system in which everyone always had to be with someone else—even though Gerard was on the run from the cops because Erica and Boyd had said that he'd kidnapped them and tried to kill them too. With the evidence lined up properly, they were supposed to go home and to school like everything was normal and they hadn't run away to begin with _and then_ gotten kidnapped by a psycho werewolf hunter. Regardless, Gerard could come out of the shadows at any point and target them, so they kept to themselves and out of everyone’s way. Peter tried to take Stiles out and about in town, but Derek stopped that in its tracks (Stiles was forever grateful).

While Peter and Derek continued to fight, they made sure it was nowhere near Stiles, even if it was Stiles' personal mission to be there when they did fight from then on. Derek and Stiles ended up together in the house or train station more often than not, reading or playing games on their phones or whatever. Derek would work out a lot and Stiles would pretend to not be watching him while surfing Reddit on his phone. This happened a lot too.

Stiles tried not to think (or find out) about his immortality and just how far it extended. He also tried to deal with his sudden claustrophobia and resurgence of panic attacks. It was frustrating and Stiles had gone so far as to use internet friends as therapists. None of them knew that Stiles had died, so he kept playing his usual collection of online games without interruption. Mostly he was stealing WiFi and going over to camp out in Scott's room to use his internet.

All of a sudden, though, it changed pace. Where it was sedate and somewhat—dare he say—normal, it was a sudden rush of things to do and watch out for and when the hell would Peter have hidden that laptop under the stairs of the house? No. Seriously. When?

Jackson had come out of the woodwork, still very much under Gerard's control, but he seemed to be in the midst of changing. Into what they had no idea. Well, until Peter dragged out that laptop (seriously though, where did that come from?) and brought up a Bestiary type of deal, but not the same as what the Argents' had. Then they found out.

The Kanima had a second phase. What the actual fuck?

 

-

Derek or Peter were always there, unless Stiles went over to Scott's. But where ever he was, there was always at least one of the pack present at all times. He would have thought that the 'immortality' label that got slapped on him would have meant that he would be the safest of the bunch (not that he wanted to test that theory, mind you), but it seemed like they were treating him as though he was just as fragile—if not more so—than he had been before the whole Gerard killing him thing.

At some points, when Peter and Derek were both around—as a side note, that was more and more sparsely—they would begin to have arguments again, and when Stiles would push himself into the room to be a part of it, they'd both turn on him and tell him to get lost. Finally, after the fifth time it happened, Stiles got fed up with being chased off.

“Get out of here, Stiles!” Derek steamrolled over Peter's, “Stiles, you really don't need to be a part of this.”

In lieu of Derek's raised voice, Stiles' expression hardened and he set his jaw. “No, I'm not leaving. You guys can't figure this out and neither of you are right anyway, so you should probably hear what I have to say.”

Derek started to step forward, clearly intent on physically tossing him from the room, but Peter's hand darted out and caught his nephew on the chest. “Wait; let's hear what he has to say.”

Peter met Derek's gaze for all of a few seconds before he looked down, a gesture that Stiles had been catching more and more between the two of them. That was Peter submitting to Derek, letting him lead. Stiles took a deep breath and met Derek's eyes in a flat gaze.

“You won't be using Lydia to do anything. I won't let you put her in that kind of situation. We don't even know what to expect from the Kanima, let alone if Jackson would be able to recognize her and not kill her.”

“We don't have a—” Derek ground out, not really listening to what Stiles was saying. Stiles sometimes thought Derek just argued on principle—if he didn't come up with it then it wasn't worth considering. He soldiered on regardless.

“You have to kill him. Or, if you can't kill him—it—then kill Gerard. If someone kills Gerard, then someone else can become the Master. It's worth a shot, right?”

Silence met the end of his proposal. Peter just looked sad and Derek was chomping at the bit to say something. Peter's hand dropped from barring the way to Stiles and he ducked his head, rubbing his thumb over his brow line as Derek lit into him.

“Are you stupid or just crazy? Do you know how many ways that could go wrong? Besides, who knows if the Kanima corrupts the Master. Look at what happened to Matt—and do you think Jackson wants to continue living his life this way? It's not even a life, it's like a zombie walking around in Jackson's flesh.”

Stiles flinched at the zombie bit, seeing how he had felt about that whole thing himself. How he still felt. Peter glanced up as Derek took in another breath to continue to berate Stiles for his suggestion and interrupted. “Derek, let it go.”

“What?” Derek's eyes flashed red as he rounded on his Uncle. Peter lowered his gaze, but pressed on.

“Leave it be. You're only attacking him, not getting through to him.” Peter's eyes snuck up to meet Stiles'. He never thought he'd be grateful to Peter Hale, of all people. Derek gave a grumble under his breath that Stiles couldn't discern any words from. He left the room quickly, tromping down the stairs and slamming the door after himself. Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. Peter stayed quiet for a moment, but when he did speak it was very low and surprisingly gentle.

“What would you do if it was Derek?”

It surprised him and made him jerk his gaze from the floor to Peter. Peter's eyes darted to the side, looking out the window and continuing as if he hadn't just ripped a hole in the space-time continuum. “Would you stop Allison if it was Scott in Jackson's place? Would you do anything to keep Erica from getting physically hurt, but making her watch as Boyd became a monster and killed everyone in the town?”

Stiles gaped at him. He was putting it so baldly, just out there and plain, like it was supposed to be there. Like it would help Stiles understand. Stiles didn't want to understand, he wanted the world to fit neatly into the boxes he had made for it. Clean, organized. He didn't want to come to the realization that he was being obtuse just because it was Lydia involved and he couldn't let go of her.

Now what was that about Derek?

-

Derek didn't come back until late at night, venturing into the train station when Stiles was just starting to doze off. The door banged shut behind him and woke Stiles, his heart pounding in his chest as Derek cursed softly. Stiles slipped a hand into the collar of his shirt and pressed it over his heart, still marveling at the fact that it was beating. Derek milled around, picking some stuff up that Stiles had left out (like that box of pizza that had some crusts from Isaac in there but nothing else and the Chinese take out box from three days ago that Stiles had been meaning to throw out for a long while), before he paused at the side of Stiles' cot. It was more like a nest of blankets raised off the ground, but hey Stiles liked it just the same. Stiles peeked out of the covers at him, trying to contain the squeak of surprise at Derek's eyes glowing red in the dark, hovering over him and meeting his eyes evenly.

Stiles didn't know what else to do but to hold his gaze, biting at the inside of his bottom lip to keep from saying anything. That didn't last long, as when Derek shifted as if to walk away without a word, his hand darted out and he lost his concentration on not saying anything. “I'd do anything to save you.”

He wasn't sure when his brain made that decision, but he was going to stand by it. He meant it. Derek was startled, his whole body tense, including the wrist that Stiles' fingers were looped around. Stiles let go, finally dropping his gaze from the red eyes in the dark and heard Derek sigh. The alpha reached out in a move that was meant to ruffle hair but he didn't have much to ruffle. Stiles drifted off to sleep with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

-

They'd cornered the Kanima in a warehouse, Gerard coming in close behind. The whole pack was there and Stiles was driving the Camaro through the streets at high speeds, Lydia in the passenger seat. He'd told her all she needed to know before he'd allowed her to say yes or no to this—he didn't understand why she would love that asshat Jackson, but he supposed that you couldn't choose who you love.

By the time they crashed into the warehouse, scratching Derek's car up along one side and sending a pole through the windshield, Allison and Chris had arrived and there was a full out battle being waged. Allison stabbed Isaac, Scott was giving a confused puppy look, Derek and Peter were tag-teaming the Kanima and Chris had Gerard at gun point. Huh. That was a twist.

“Oh my _god_ , Stiles!” Lydia's voice pulled him from the battle outside and he was undoing his seat belt.

“Don't worry, Derek will forgive me.” But it turned out that she wasn't actually talking about the damage to the car. Oh, that was just _gross_. The pole that was jutting through the windshield was through his left side, keeping his seat belt trapped and making him wonder why he didn't notice he was fucking _impaled_ earlier.

“I need to call 911.” Lydia fumbled with her phone and Stiles reached out, unintentionally smacking it from her hands and watching it fall to the floor.

“I'll—I'll be fine. Go do what you need to do.” He gritted his teeth. Oh there it was, the pain had finally shown up to the party. Better late than never, he supposed. He took a couple of steadying breaths and wondered if his immortality extended to this. Would it heal if he pulled it out? Would there be any way to know until it was yanked out of him? He tried to pry it from his side, but he got the feeling that he was pinned here like a bug.

Lydia glanced back once after she'd climbed out of the car, worry in her eyes. He gave her a small, trying-to-be-reassuring smile and thumbs up through the pain that was threatening to chew up his insides and spit them out. Derek fell back when Lydia got to them, looking around in confusion before he spun on his heel and was racing over to the car. He wrenched the driver's side door open, but Stiles had given up on getting free and was watching Lydia instead.

“You have to protect her! What are you doing over here?” His voice came out high pitched and desperate.

“Saving you, idiot. Peter will make sure she's safe.” Derek grumbled, still wolfed out and looking more menacing than Stiles really wanted him to look. Derek slashed the seat belt and got it out of the way, touching the pole that was sunk into Stiles' gut.

“Stiles, you better live through this.” Was the only warning he got before Derek yanked it out in one swift motion. Stiles felt cold and hot all at once, he watched with a morbid fascination as blood and tissue dripped from the pole and onto his lap. He felt his face flush and his breathing and heart rate pick up. He had his eyes straight ahead, watching as Lydia held up the key and Jackson reached for it, slowly turning back to the human Jackson, as his vision started to get spotty.

-

When Stiles came to, Derek was cradling him in his lap, seated on the floor of the warehouse, everyone was gathered around including a very naked Jackson, yet missing a murdery Gerard. He tried to talk but coughed, having a fit before he managed to breathe properly again.

“Hey everybody, how's it going?” His voice came out as a croak. Lydia was clinging to Jackson's arm, Allison and Scott, Erica and Boyd—Chris was standing back from the group, but lingering and ever-watchful over their shoulders. Peter was by Derek's shoulder.

“Well I guess that answers that. He'll live.” Peter's sarcasm wasn't as good as Stiles'. It just wasn't, ok?


End file.
